The Incident at Montebello (25 page)

“That's vervain. It protects us from danger.”

“Does it work?” Isolina asked.

“Of course it works.” Cecilia turned to Lucia. “Take it. It will protect you and make you strong—so you can help yourself and the children.”

Grasping the chain, Lucia slipped it over her head and kissed the midwife's tough cheek. “Thank you, Cecilia,” she murmured. “You give me far more than I can ever give you.”

Cecilia frowned. “That's nonsense and you know it. Now eat your eggs.”

When they finished washing the dishes, Lucia pushed her arms through her coat sleeves and wound her scarf around her mouth and neck. Isolina followed her into the cold, even though she wished she could linger in Cecilia's warm kitchen, isolated from the danger swirling around them. The midwife was a strange woman, but Isolina was learning to look beyond Cecilia's faded blue skirt, a striped sweater with a hole in the elbow and thick wool stockings sagging around her ankles to see the glimmers of Cecilia's kindness, wisdom, and honesty.

Throughout the day, the weather worsened. A frigid rain pelted her as she ran to her parents' house where she was greeted with clangs and shouts. Her brother Peppino was banging a pot with a spoon while two more brothers marched through the kitchen, wearing the rain slickers and rubbers Donato brought back from Boston. Delighted, more boys joined the parade. Shrieking, Amelia waved the broom and chased them into the yard where they high-stepped over the buckets and chickens to their delight. Isolina sighed, wishing she could go home to Rodi. All day long, her thoughts darted around him. At one moment, she was angry with him for hiding his involvement with the anti-Fascists. In the next, she longed to make peace with him. And in between, she worried that he'd be caught helping Manfredo.

By the time she fed the boys supper and slipped on her coat, the tree branches glistened with ice. As she slid towards home, she clutched fences and lampposts, anxious to see Rodi, who was huddled by the stove, his hair damp from the rain. As she strode towards him, he frowned and she faltered as the weight of his anger pressed heavily on her shoulders. “Sweetheart,” she murmured, kissing his cheek. “I'm sorry I'm late.”

He shrugged. “My mother made me supper—again.”

Stubbornly, she insisted, “But my mother needed me.”

“I'm your husband. I should come first.”

“You're still angry about Manfredo.”

“There's nothing to say.”

“He's your best friend. Of course, we have to help him.”

“That's not what you said the other night.”

“You didn't let me explain.” She seized his hand. “The priest and Pasquale are saying that Manfredo is in town. By now, everyone must know it.”

“They like to gossip.”

“It's more than that.” She told him about Donato hitting Lucia and how the priest had gotten Lucia, Charlie and Sardolini in trouble with the police.

“
Merda,
” he swore and jumped to his feet.

“I'm scared, Rodi. I realized something else. Padre Colletti knows the driver was Il Duce.”

“How?”

“On the day of the accident, I overheard one of the policemen telling the priest about a big shot in Roma who had no heart. He had to be talking about Il Duce. Padre Colletti is worried about his own neck. That's why he told the police that Charlie was visiting Signor Sardolini the other night.”

“
Oca
,” Rodi swore.

“We've got to get Manfredo out of here.”

“Faustino's man in Castellammare is still forging his documents.”

“We can't wait, Rodi. Surely, you can see that. We're outnumbered. There are very few people we can trust.”

“Signor Sardolini said he'd help us.”

“He's in enough trouble.”

“And Faustino too and your Zio Crispino.”

“Crispino?”

“Yes, of course. He's been working for years for the anti-Fascists. So has your Zia Marie Elena.”

She blinked in surprise. According to family lore, it was remarkable that the diminutive Crispino had managed to father two tall, handsome sons with a wife as homely as Marie Elena. Not only that, he was henpecked.

“There, you see,” Rodi declared. “If you look for a snake under every rock, you'll find one.”

“But what are we going to do about Manfredo?”

“I'll talk to Faustino first thing in the morning. I can't even think straight. I've got to sleep.”

“How can you sleep? What if something happens to Manfredo tonight?”

“On a night like this? Who's going to bother him? He's safe in the soap factory.”

She hesitated, but in the end she believed him. He was right about the weather. Hail was battering the roof. Tossing some coal into the stove, she trailed him to the bedroom, where he undressed, saying little. But under the quilts, he drew her close, his legs entwined with hers. She rested her head on his chest and listened to the comforting thump of his heart. When he kissed her forehead and lips, a rush of love surged through her and she said, “I hate when we fight.”

“So do I.” He unbuttoned her nightgown and ran his finger from the hollow of her throat to her breasts. His tongue outlined her nipples. In reply, she tugged her nightgown over her hips and slid open her legs. She held her breath as he pushed inside her and the delicious frisson of skin on skin began. But then the choir started chanting in her head—her mother telling her to grit her teeth and bear it, and the nuns and priests threatening damnation if she actually enjoyed it. And then he was kissing her again and she chased them out of her mind, focusing instead on him—the softness of his mouth and the sweetness of his breath. With a low moan, he jerked his hips. She thrust back. At that moment, she only thought of him and that point of pleasure where their sex touched. He pushed and she answered. With a low moan, he rocked his hips faster.

“Pull out. Hurry,” she warned. They had to be careful. Il Duce had outlawed condoms. But just then, his hips jerked and she felt a hot, sticky rush between her legs.

Rolling off her, he settled next to her, his breath slowing. He reached for her hand and kissed her fingers. “I couldn't stop.”

“You've got to. We can't take risks like that.”

“There's a pretty good chance nothing will happen. It takes a few times.”

“That's not what I heard. I don't want a baby now, do you? We should wait.”

“You're right,” he said, yawning. “But what's the point of worrying about it now?”

“I have to worry. That's where I'm different from you.”

“And I love you for it.” He kissed her shoulder and rolled onto his side, sighing as he surrendered to sleep.

Before dawn, Rodi took off with a sack of food and supplies for Manfredo. While she swept the floors and chopped vegetables, a barrage of worries made her head ache. Despite Rodi's reassurances, she knew it was time to leave Italy. Somehow she had to convince him. But just as she was thinking it through, the knocking started. “Damn,” she muttered. She was in no mood for her mother-in-law, who was as persistent as the tax collector. After taking a deep breath, she swung open the door, revealing Signora Butasi clutching her knitting.

“Where's Rodi? Is everything all right?” she asked, her brow creased with worry. “Your lights were on late last night.”

“He's fine. He left already,” Isolina said, as Signora Butasi brushed past, her black skirt touching the tops of her shoes. Lowering herself into the rocking chair, she patted her hair, styled the same way for forty years. The front strands were curled into long ringlets—much like rigatoni and the back section was twisted and pinned at the crown. It gave her an odd, old-fashioned look, but Signora Butasi clung to her girlish past despite her wrinkles.

As she jerked her knitting needles, she sized up Isolina's housekeeping skills and frowned at the crumbs on the kitchen table, left over from breakfast. “You're not making
ribollita
are you?” she said, scrutinizing the ingredients on the chopping board. “Rodi doesn't care for it.”

Isolina soon realized that the round and diminutive Signora Butasi wore a pleasant face in public, but was fierce in regards to Rodi, her youngest and only boy. “He said he liked it the last time I made it.”

“He was just being polite. I know Rodi. Why don't you make minestrone instead? Rodi likes that.”

“How could he like one and not the other? They have almost the same ingredients.”

“Trust me, Isolina. Make the minestrone. Do you have some
cannellini
beans? Just boil them for a few minutes and let them sit in the pot for an hour before you use them. And chop the tomatoes fine.”

“I make it the way my mamma taught me.”

“Your mother's way isn't the only way.”

“But this is the way I do it.”

“Nonsense. You'll feel better doing it my way. I'm telling you what I told my own girls.”

Isolina sighed. With her daughters married and out of the house, Signora Butasi had plenty of time for instruction.

The
signora
continued, “My girls complained, just like you, but in the end they always came back to me and said, ‘You're right, mamma.' That's why when they had babies, I packed my bags and stayed there for a few months, cooking, washing, cleaning. I'll do the same for you, you can be sure.”

“I am sure.” Now Isolina understood why one daughter lived in Grappone, another in Castellammare, and a third on the opposite side of town.

Signora Butasi was still lecturing. “I had three children by the time I was twenty. I had to grow up fast, but babies come when they're ready. It's God's will. Not ours. Il Duce was very clear on that—He said a woman is a mother first of all. That's what I taught Rodi. I'm sure your mother did too.”

She had no choice but to agree. “Of course,
signora.
”

When Signora Butasi put down her knitting and walked towards her, a little smile nudged the edges of her mouth, but her eyes transmitted an entirely different message. She said, “You had me fooled for a while, but now I can see. You're the restless one, aren't you? You're not happy with what we have here—a simple life, but a good one too. Remember that, dear
.
” That said, Signora Butasi squeezed Isolina's chin between her thumb and forefinger and peered into her eyes. Isolina squirmed under her grasp.

That night at the
caffè
, Donato drank too much whiskey. Even so, waves of guilt swept through him every time he thought about hitting Lucia and Charlie and spying on Rodi. He was hardly listening when his friends told him their plan to rout Manfredo, tie him up and beat him. But he raised his glass, congratulating them on making their town safe from anti-Fascist vermin.

“We know where he is,” Pasquale whispered. “He's in the soap factory. Arturo saw him.”

“That's right,” Arturo said, excitement flickering in his eyes.

“Is that so?” Donato said, half-listening. He was convinced his friends were theorizing just like half the people in town.

Well after midnight, he staggered out of the
caffè
. After taking a dozen steps, he hit a patch of ice. All at once, his feet flew up into the air and he landed on his butt with an unceremonious thud. His dignity wounded, he lurched home, grabbing fences and lampposts. Once inside, he shuffled upstairs, a precipitous climb. On the landing, he listened to his children muttering and sighing in their sleep. Across the hall, Lucia was curled up on her side, her braid uncoiling on the pillow. He stared at her as he tugged on his shoes and dropped them with a thud on the floor. He should be relieved she was sleeping. He should be thankful for the silence.

Slipping under the covers, he fell asleep almost immediately. Still, worries invaded his dreams. A fox lurking in the yard was about to pounce on the chickens. Its eyes gleamed like black beads and its red coat glistened. Grabbing a gun, he aimed and pulled the trigger. The animal staggered and fell. On closer inspection, it had his face, even his mustache. He woke up sweating.